


The Deal

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Elevator Sex, F/M, Flirting, Humor, Semi-Public Sex, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Jon is Daenerys' most difficult client yet - no matter how many properties she shows him, he finds a fault with them all. With her job on the line, she makes a desperate decision to trap him in a deal. But who exactly is the one getting trapped?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 42
Kudos: 338





	The Deal

“I don’t know,” Jon says as he turns to the windows. He sucks on his teeth. His lips tug back into a grimace. “Isn’t it a bit _light?”_

Daenerys restrains herself from snapping her pencil in two. She watches Jon as he faces the balcony. He is handsome, she knows, with his dark curls and grey eyes and square chin. His body is broad and strong. He fills out the brown suit _just right,_ the American cut giving him a look of quiet success; he is rich, but he doesn’t brag. Still he _does_ make the blood in her veins boil.

Daenerys forces a smile. She pretends to write on her board. “Well, Mr Snow, bright properties are generally preferred. You can sit outside and watch the sun rise.”

“I don’t like the colour of the walls. The blue is rather dull.”

“We can easily paint it any way you’d like.”

“I don’t know,” Jon repeats and sucks on his teeth again.

Daenerys’ jaw clenches. She tries to soften her demeanour as she approaches him. Her heels clack across the wooden floor. The sound makes him stir; he drags his gaze away from the skyline of the city to her face. He looks tired, she thinks, and _annoyed._ “Mr Snow,” she says, “this is a newly built complex. You can do anything you’d like to the space - put up wallpaper, lay down carpets, make it _your own.”_

“Exactly,” Jon says, “it’s _newly built._ I’d expect to have work done if I was buying some property from the forties.”

“Any building requires work to make it a home.”

“Even one from this decade?”

_“Especially_ one from the sixties,” Daenerys agrees. Her smile has started to stiffen. She can feel her cheeks quiver. “Mr Snow, this is the twentieth property I’m showing you. It seems to me that even when your requirements are met, small details cause you to reconsider putting in an offer. If you’re looking for a place that matches some image in your head, then I’m sorry to tell you that it doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe,” Jon says, and a mocking smirk takes over his lips as he turns to face her, hands in his pockets, his shoulders rolled back in a nonchalant stance, “or maybe you’re not looking hard enough, _Miss Targaryen.”_

The pencil snaps. Daenerys swears under her breath as the pieces fall to the floor, and she bends down to pick them up. Her cheeks are pink. She feels like marching out of the flat. She has to take in a deep breath to calm herself down. “I’m starting to think,” she says, choosing her words with care as her nails scramble across the wood, “that I’m not clear on what you’re looking for.”

“I think so too,” Jon says gruffly.

Daenerys straightens up, the broken pencil stuffed under the clasp of her clipboard, and sends Jon a hopeless look. “Well, Mr Snow,” she sighs, “how do we proceed?” But he’s not looking at her - he’s looking down, the tip of his tongue brushing his upper-lip. Her brows furrow. “What?”

“Your skirt,” Jon says with a nod.

Daenerys glances down. Her face burns bright red. The hemline of her dress is stuck on a nick in her stockings, revealing the top of her thighs. She quickly turns her back to him and brushes it down. “I’m sorry,” she breathes with embarrassment.

“Not at all,” she hears him smirk in reply. Even with her back turned to him, she can sense it - how he looks at her, how he judges her. He lingers there for a moment. Then, he speaks: “I have to get back to the office.”

“Of course.” Daenerys still can’t make herself look at him. As she hears him walk, the new leather of his shoes groaning as he steps toward the hallway, she pretends to peruse her paperwork. Her sheet only has one comment - a big capital _NO._

Twenty properties. Twenty missed opportunities. In the beginning, her boss was understanding. “Wealthy men are demanding,” he’d say whenever she expressed concern, “just keep pushing.” But once Jon turned down a penthouse due to the stairs having _too few steps,_ the man lost his patience.

“You get him to sign,” he growled, his face red and his lips spluttering spit as he pointed at her from behind his oak desk, “or you find yourself a new job, girl!” All Daenerys could do at the time was to bow her head and agree.

Daenerys closes her eyes with a sigh. She thinks of her flatmate Missandei who has covered her portion of the rent for the last two months. She thinks of her mother pleading with her not to take a job in the city. She thinks of her father’s smug smile if she was to return home. She thinks: _I need to close the deal._

Daenerys’ eyes snap open. She stares toward the front door. It has been left askew. Through the crack, she can see Jon in the hallway. He pushes the button for the elevator. He waits with a bored look on his face. As the doors open, she calls: “Mr Snow,” and she sees his grey eyes peer over his shoulder back at her. She forces another smile and walks with quick steps toward him. “Allow me to see you out.”

“There’s no need-”

“I insist,” Daenerys interrupts. She locks up the flat, turns on her heels, and sends him a bold look. He stares back at her with indifference - _almost._ There’s a tug at the corners of his lips. It’s short, but she sees it.

“I know what you’re doing, Miss,” he says. He’d put his hat back on, but now he slips it off and holds it to his chest as he watches her. “You’re going to give me a sales pitch.”

“I would be a poor realtor if I did not attempt to pique your interest,” Daenerys points out.

“Very well, Miss,” Jon replies and his eyes slip down her frame. She senses how his gaze rests at the hemline of her skirt. It’s as if he’s pulling it up in his mind, dragging it past the line of her stockings, revealing her frilly pants. It makes her spine tingle. “You get the time it takes us to go down. What is it, nineteen floors?”

“Twenty-six,” Daenerys corrects him. Before the doors can close, she slips past him into the elevator, and he follows. He reaches behind her to push the button for the ground floor. She feels the sleeve of his suit brush to her back. Soft, and expensive, and warm with the smell of aftershave. He must have spilled some, she thinks, when he trimmed his beard that morning. In the tight space, the scent lingers. It fills her nostrils. It makes her heart-beat quicken.

As they start going down, Jon hooks his thumbs into the belt-loops of his slacks and gives her an expectant look. “Well,” he says, “now’s your time.”

“You’re a businessman,” Daenerys says. She holds the clipboard to her chest as she peers up at him. It is peculiar, she thinks, to have to speak frankly to a man of his status. Old money, new money - she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t care. Men with cash are all the same; they know their worth, and they despise their time being wasted. _Especially by a woman._ “Think of this as an investment. This neighbourhood is flourishing. In a few years, you could sell the space and _profit.”_

“Twenty properties,” Jon reminds her dryly, “and you still don’t know me, Miss Targaryen. Money is of no concern. I have no interest in making more.” He withdraws a cigarette. He lights it. The scent of ashes bash across Daenerys’ face when he exhales. He smirks. “Try something else.”

“Right,” Daenerys says, stunned. Her nails tap to the back of the board. She looks for another angle. “A family man,” she starts, “should consider not only what the space looks like now, but what it will become once his wife resides there, once children fill the quiet with noise. This property offers you a family home.”

“I’m a bachelor,” Jon says.

“Not forever,” Daenerys reminds him.

Jon peers at her as he smokes. He inhales. He exhales. His plump lips purse slightly. A woman could kiss them, she thinks, and never grow tired of their softness. The thought makes her blush and look away, and she only just catches the teasing glimpse to Jon’s eyes as he urges: “Another angle.”

Daenerys’ heart is beating quickly. She can feel sweat starting to cling onto her back. The room suddenly seems too small for the two of them. _Perhaps,_ she thinks, _it’s because he takes up so much space._ Not physically, but with his presence - the smells of man, the aura of power, the attitude that tells her that he knows what he wants and he’ll accept nothing less.

“We’re over halfway,” Jon says.

Daenerys licks her lips. “A property like this doesn’t come around often, and-”

“I’m not interested in a _pressure sale.”_

“When you work long hours, you need to be close to-”

“I can drive wherever.”

“The asking price is already low because-”

“I told you,” Jon scoffs, smoke escaping his lips, “money is of no concern.” He looks up. The numbers displayed atop the elevator doors are ticking down quickly. Nine. Eight. Seven Six. He has another drag of his cigarette. “I’m sorry, Miss, it doesn’t look like we’ll come to an agreement today.”

Daenerys watches the numbers too. Five - she sees herself packing up, leaving the office, her boss ripping her contract into pieces. Four - she imagines the agencies offering her work as a typist, disregarding years of employment, only acknowledging her ability to _type._ Three - she imagines Jon meeting with a male agent and signing the contract that same day. Two -

Daenerys reaches out and presses the emergency button. The elevator jumps to a halt. The movement is so sudden that she stumbles across the floor, and Jon, caught by surprise, drops hold of his smoke as she falls into his arms. He crashes backwards against the wooden panelling. He stares down at her in shock.

“Miss Targaryen-” he starts, his voice tinged with anger, but Daenerys doesn’t allow him to continue as she snaps:

“Mr Snow.” She pushes herself free of his chest, but she remains close, staring up at him, meeting his glare brazenly. His hands still rest on her waist. She finds it almost spurs her on. “I am good at my work-”

“I never said-”

“-and I have found you the perfect property. When you came to me, it was because no other realtor had been able to understand your particular needs. You said so yourself - men saw the cash in your pocket, and they tried to sell you mansions in the countryside.”

“Well-” Jon starts again, but this time he quiets himself. His lips snap together. His eyes narrow. He could shout, she thinks, and accuse her of playing dirty by trapping him here in the elevator. But there’s a shadow of _something_ on his face. A hint of bemusement. A glimmer of acknowledgement.

_He’s impressed,_ she realises. It makes the smile on her lips deepen. This time, she doesn’t have to force it. When she speaks, her determination is natural: “I want what is best for you, Mr Snow. This apartment has what you ask for: it is spacious, yet intimate, modern, and still not made of just glass and steel. It has character. In fact, it is like yourself,” she pauses briefly, a blush creeping up her neck as she concludes: “Quietly confident in its ability to impress. It can be it all - with the right touch.”

Jon watches her. He licks his teeth. His tongue peers out from between his lips. For a moment, she thinks she has convinced him. Then, he asks: “Who would provide that touch?”

Daenerys blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I told you, Miss Targaryen,” Jon says. He takes a step forward. His movement forces her to take a step back. Their bodies brush together. The air between them grows hot and dry. “I am a bachelor. You want to sell me a home? A man on his own does not make one.” He steps forward.

Daenerys steps back. Her behind presses to the wall on the other side. The railing sits tight at the small of her back. Her hands lose hold of the clipboard. It drops to the floor with a dull noise. She stares up at Jon, stunned, surprised. It’s not just the way he stands before her, broad and striking, but also the way he _looks_ at her - like she’s something to desire, someone to grab and claim and need as much as air. She finds herself unable to breathe. She gasps her words: “Mr Snow-”

“It is true,” Jon ponders out loud as he looks down at her. His breath smells of smoke and whisky. It makes Daenerys hands grapple at the railing in quiet desperation. She hates the scent. She loves it - it is strong, and overpowering. “You have given me everything I’ve asked for, Miss. But I’ve come to realise that what I want can’t be found in some New York property.”

“Why not?” Daenerys asks. Her voice is a whisper. Her gaze flickers between his eyes - strong, determined - and his lips - smirking, tempting - and his chest - close, warm, _firm._ She feels him when he presses himself to her, his body covering hers, pinning her to the wall. “What is it,” she asks, glancing back up at him, “that you want, Mr Snow?”

Jon reaches in. He grabs at her chin and turns her face up. As the back of her head rests against the panelling, he brushes his thumb across her lips, leans down, and whispers: _“You.”_

Daenerys pushes her hands into Jon’s hair as she drags him in for a kiss. His lips are as soft as she expected, but his teeth are hard, and his tongue is rough. It slips into her mouth as she gasps, licks up the taste of her, forces her to accommodate him. She wants to, she knows instinctively - she wants to give herself to him. She wants to kiss the mockery off his lips, tear the scent of cologne from his shirt, and have his cock stretch her until he forgets her name.

Jon’s hands are on her. They know what they want; his fingers slip beneath her skirt, his nails tug at her stockings, his tips stroke her thighs. She is warm between her legs. When he sinks his hand into her pants, her juices make his palm sticky.

“Oh God,” Daenerys whispers as he sinks a finger into her. He feels rough against her smooth inners, and she can’t help but clench down around him. The second finger strokes across her clit. It makes her shiver as he fills her up. Her legs buckle. If it wasn’t for his body keeping her upright, she’s not sure she would be standing. “Oh _God.”_

“I thought you hated me,” Jon whispers to her ear. His breath is heated. His hand works quickly at her sex. He is greedy, and demanding, and Daenerys can just moan as he feels up her body.

“I do,” she gasps, her hands brushing through his hair, down his shoulders, clinging onto his suit. “You’re too picky and indecisive. I hate how you make a fool of me.”

“But?” Jon says.

“But,” Daenerys admits, staring hopelessly into his eyes as he fills her with a third finger, “I want you to take me.” She can’t hide it - from the way her body arches into his touch, to the heated glimpse to her eyes. She feels certain he can see it:

Their first meeting - how charmed she was, how she blushed when he spoke, how she watched him, her hand brushing to his when he drove her back to the office in his car. And:

In the penthouse, pointedly walking the stairs before him, Jon lingering at the bottom as his eyes sought under her dress, his mouth an annoyed frown as the lack of steps stopped his view. And:

In the elevator earlier, going up, her eyes on his body as he shrugged out of his suit jacket and complained about the heat, the perspiration on his shirt causing the fabric to stick to his abs. He caught her looking. He didn’t say anything. They just stood in silence and watched each other until they reached their floor.

Now, she is no longer silent. As he withdraws his fingers, she moans in disappointment. She feels cold, and empty at once. But not for long; Jon grabs a hold of her waist and pushes her up the wall, and her legs kick out to lock at his hips. Her heels fall off. They tumble across the carpeted floor as Jon traps her with his body.

“A home is not a home,” Jon says as he slips a hand down to his slacks, unzips himself, drags his hard cock free of his trousers. She wants to see him. She can’t from above - she can just hear how his belt clinks as the buckle is moved, and hear the faint groan that escapes Jon’s lips as he gives himself a firm stroke. “-if there’s no woman to return to.”

“You should get yourself one,” Daenerys says, her arms falling around his shoulders. Her body hurts - from the wall, and from Jon’s roughness, the way he shuffles her across the wood panelling as he positions himself between her spread legs. She knows she is going to be sore and bruised tomorrow. She loves the thought.

Jon smirks. He pushes forward, their noses bumping as his cockhead pushes around the line of her pants and parts her labia. She can feel him sink in between them, into her tightness, stretching her. “I already have,” he grunts. Then, he pushes in, and Daenerys rocks back against the wall as he fills her with the thick length of his cock.

She gasps. Her nails dig into his jacket. He is big, and warm, and intruding inside of her. She feels too small to accommodate him. It excites her - as Jon thrusts into her again, his member stroking across her clit, forcing her body to take him, she moans. Her noises are captured by his lips. He swallows her sounds as he fucks her.

Daenerys is not sure when she knew she wanted Jon. She only knows that as he takes her in rough, deep thrusts, she’s exactly where she wants to be. She feels small. She feels weak. She feels strong. She feels in charge. He has her because she wants him to. He traps her because she lets him. He kisses her, and feels her through her dress, and messes up her hair - because she likes to be his mess.

A wet noise echoes in the small room. Daenerys is soaked, and Jon’s cock is slick with her juices. When he takes her, their skin clapping together, sweat tinting the air, she can feel her body giving in. She moves at his will. She moans at his demands - the way he holds her, and positions her, and rests inside of her, rubbing himself to her sex as if she’s there to please him.

But he also pleases her - with his lips on her neck, on her collarbone, on her ear. His hands on her breasts, on her waist, between her legs. She feels it - how he touches her as he takes her. It makes her head spin - the sensation of being rubbed and fucked at once overwhelming.

She doesn’t last long. She comes around his cock. She lets go of a quiet cry to his lips, his tongue once more claiming her sounds. She can’t breathe, she can just taste him - tobacco, alcohol, _man._ Her heartbeat is in her throat. Her fingertips are growing white from clinging onto him. It doesn’t even matter - when she lets go, he holds her still, his hands on her hips now, marking her, claiming her. She rocks with his movements. She allows him to use her.

When he comes, all she can do is weakly welcome him, her body open and wet for his cum. It fills her. It drips down her. She feels it on her thighs as he slips out of her, breathlessly, tiredly. She could collapse. The railing is the only thing keeping her on her feet - she clings onto it as she gasps in air, watching Jon as he does the same, stumbling back against the other side of the elevator.

For a moment, the air is tense with their breathing. The scent of sex lingers on them. Even when Daenerys reaches between her legs to correct her panties, she can still feel his heat. It is inside of her. It makes her flush.

Jon tugs himself away and corrects his tie with a cough. He reaches down and grabs her clipboard off the floor. He hands it to her. “Miss.”

Daenerys accepts the board. She tries to smile. She only manages a pant. “Thank you,” she says. Her heels are still scattered. She stumbles around to step into them, forcing herself not to bend over. She is worried that if she does, Jon’s cum will slipper past her knees and mark her stockings. She can’t decide if she would like it to or not.

Jon lights a cigarette. He offers Daenerys one. She takes it, filling her lungs with the smoke and letting go of it in a huff. It calms her nerves. It gives her the bravery to peer into his eyes and ask:

“So, Mr Snow, what do you think?”

Jon smirks. He shakes his head a little. “Are we still discussing business?”

“It is the best property at the best price,” Daenerys says. She inhales. She exhales. Ashes flicker through the air. “Do we have a deal?”

Jon surveys her for a moment. She can’t tell what he’s thinking - his grey eyes are narrowed, and his lips hidden behind the smoke of his cigarette. “And the woman?” he asks. “Will she be there to welcome me home?”

Daenerys blushes. She still can’t help but smile. As Jon holds out his hand with a raised brow, she takes it, and shakes it. “Of course,” she says, her heart fluttering a bit in her chest as he smirks wryly, “if he treats her right.”

“I don’t think she wants to be treated right,” Jon points out, making her cheeks grow an even darker shade. But he’s also smiling.

The elevator groans. A hollow noise clicks through the shaft above them. Then, it starts moving. The red light from the emergency button dies out. As they reach the ground floor, the doors fling open, and a maintenance man stares in at them.

“What happened?” he asks, looking at them confused. “It seems like the button was pressed manually.”

“What happened?” Jon asks with exasperation. “I’ve just bought an apartment in a complex where the elevators don’t work, that’s what happened. Get it fixed.” He winks at Daenerys.

Daenerys bites her lower lip not to smile. She nods at the man and hurries past him, following at Jon’s heels to their cars outside. The wind is cool and fresh against her warm face. She sighs and lets the air fill her lungs.

“Well, Miss,” Jon says as he pops on his hat and nods at her, “I shall see you soon. I trust you can arrange the contract?”

“Of course,” Daenerys says, “I’ll have it sent to your office.”

“I don’t think so,” Jon replies as he unlocks his car. She watches as he settles behind the wheel and gives her a pointed look. “I’d rather you bring it _personally._ Just to make sure it’s all in order.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says with quiet joy, and she steps back and watches as Jon takes off, a wave of his hand as he disappears down the busy streets of the city. She can only smile. _I got the deal,_ she thinks, _and then some._ She can’t wait to see how many times the elevator will break in Jon’s new complex.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real reason behind this story other than a) DragonandDirewolf wanted me to write about estate agent Daenerys, and b) I've not done elevator sex yet. There's a first for everything!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this and thanks for reading!


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